


Its Melancholy, Long, Withdrawing Roar

by gentle_herald



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Apologies To Matthew Arnold, Awkward Sex On A Beach, Don't Examine This Too Closely, M/M, Minor Character Gets An Eyeful, Most Of Richard's Lines Are From His Poem Dover Beach, Richard Moping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 23:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9686207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentle_herald/pseuds/gentle_herald
Summary: Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,Listen! you hear the grating roarOf pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,At their return, up the high strand,Begin, and cease, and then again begin,With tremulous cadence slow, and bringThe eternal note of sadness in.Or, Richard II quotes anachronistic Late Victorian poetry on a Welsh beach and is a self-pitying wreck. Set directly after the "Graves, Worms, and Epitaphs" scene.





	

The tide was going out. The shoreline was now only a dim smudge of grey and a line of white where the shingle met the sea and night was falling fast. Only a very thin stripe of gold lined the western sky where it disappeared into the sea; that gold turned alarmingly quickly to deepest sapphire and then to aptly named midnight blue. 

"We can't carry all this," Edward said brusquely. "Not if we want to move fast. We need to move fast." He began rooting through packs. 

"I would have brought more asses if I could," said Stephen. "But it was trial enough getting away while all the others followed your lord father." 

"My lord father?" Edward's voice was quiet and desperate. "He's hardly my father now. Old men and their pride." 

"Will His Grace miss this?" Stephen held up a bundle: clearly robes, clearly finely embroidered. 

"Ah. Bring them. We might have need." He'd never let them go while he has his pride, Edward thought with a surge of affection not untouched by annoyance. Would it mean worse if he abandoned them? "They could be valuable." In case we have to bargain our way out of death. 

 

Richard was still sitting on the beach, huddled over and tracing arcane patterns in the sand with one elegant index finger. He rocked back and forth slightly as the Bishop of Carlisle, fumbling, started an ill-built fire. 

"Have you caught me some fish, John? Oh well, the Sea of Galilee is retreating down the naked shingles of the world." 

John, Bishop of Carlisle, started. A spark jumped onto his hand and he but back a curse, turning to see that Richard had come up behind him. Sea of Galilee? What blasphemy was the man thinking? Not for the first time he questioned why exactly God Almighty had put such a – a dramatic man on the throne. Bolingbroke on the other hand... now there was a man of sense. Oh, no. First cursing and now treason. Would this day never end? 

"No fish, I'm afraid, God preserve your Grace. It'll be campaign rations." We weren't expecting to be out this long. We weren't expecting to eat the food the soldiers do. 

"We find in the sound a thought, hearing it by this distant northern sea." 

"Your Grace? Would you like to sit?" Carlisle gestured towards a rough log near the fire, spread with a blanket. Anything to quiet this madman-like speech. 

"Aren't you going to ask about my thought?", said Richard petulantly. 

"What troubles you, your Grace?" 

"Oh, shut up old man." Richard really did seem to get some relief from blaming others. "The world which seemed to lie before us like a land of dreams: so various, so beautiful, so new, has really neither joy, nor love, nor light, nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; and we are here as on a darkling plain swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night." 

What was he supposed to do about that? He was just trying to heat water. "Pray for the guidance of the Holy Ghost, that He may enlighten your heart with hope and counsel." Carlisle nodded respectfully and hoped passionately that the Holy Ghost could deal with Richard's emotions better than he did. 

 

Carlisle wasn't sure when Richard finally slept. He tried to close off all awareness of the world as quickly as possible, and the sand was decently comfortable though their physical position, not to mention the political one, felt extraordinarily vulnerable. The Duke of Aumerle had the first watch; that was well enough, he was an earnest young man and bearing up well under his father's treachery... 

A pale wraith amid darker shadows, Richard sat up and leaned into Aumerle's side. Aumerle wrapped his cloak around the two of them and sat in silent, watchful fear. 

"Come, Edward, cousin. The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair upon the straits. What there would harm us? It's only a daydream. At night, the kind moon shines down on us and the stars bless their children." Only," he continued haltingly, "from the long line of spray where the sea meets the moon-blanched land you hear the grating roar of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, at their return, up the high strand. They begin, and cease, and then again begin, with tremulous cadence slow, and bring the eternal note of sadness in. Eternal sadness, Edward. It's meant for me." 

Edward sat on the log, struck dumb. Yes, the breaking surf was melancholy now that he considered it, its boom empty and echoing: funeral drums and the suddenly rising wind a dirge. But Richard was pulling him down into a tear-stained kiss, tender at first and then passionate; and Aumerle rolled them off the log so that Richard was sitting on his chest and undoing the laces of his breeches with practiced, clever fingers. 

Carlisle woke in disorienting blackness to muffled panting sounds and froze in terror, torn between the desire to hold as still as possible so that traitor York's knights wouldn't kill him and a need to find a weapon – any weapon. He cautiously levered himself up on one elbow to see what was happening and oh God, preserve me sweet Jesu, King Richard and the Duke of Aumerle were wrapped around each other not ten feet from him and it was quite unmistakable what they were doing. He looked away very fast and froze again as Richard stared over Aumerle's shoulder and looked him squarely in the eye, a seductive smile on his red lips. Very slowly – make it look like you're sleepwalking, John – Carlisle closed his eyes and painstakingly lowered himself back into his bedding. That was almost as bad: the sounds were getting more and more graphic. I'm not surprised, he told himself. They were perfectly clear about this state of affairs before. But really, on a beach and in a camp without so much as a tent over them! 

"Ah love!" They were so shamelessly loud that Carlisle almost groaned in despair but stopped himself – the horror if they thought he was doing _that_ because of them. Instead, he mashed his face into his blanket and almost into the sand. No, don't do that either. 

"Let us be true to one another." That was Aumerle's voice, full of adoration, and Carlisle risked another glance. They were, mercifully finished and curled in each other's arms; Richard's head was on Aumerle's shoulder and his long hair was draped over both of them. He mumbled gently to himself as if writing poetry or telling Aumerle a fairy tale. 

"The Sea of Faith was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, retreating, to the breath of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear toward the cold, forgetting sea." 

Stop it, Richard. Stop being so fatalistic and get some sleep. The war's only lost if you won't fight it. But the last thing the Bishop of Carlisle heard as he drifted off to a chilly, stiff sleep was the King murmuring in his lover's ear. 

"We are but a drop in the turbid ebb and flow of human misery..."

**Author's Note:**

> I tend to write with a quote as a prompt. This time it's a whole poem and it's basically all Richard's dialogue. Matthew Arnold is probably sleepwalking right out of his grave.
> 
> The sea is calm tonight.  
> The tide is full, the moon lies fair  
> Upon the straits; on the French coast the light  
> Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,  
> Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.  
> Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!  
> Only, from the long line of spray  
> Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,  
> Listen! you hear the grating roar  
> Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,  
> At their return, up the high strand,  
> Begin, and cease, and then again begin,  
> With tremulous cadence slow, and bring  
> The eternal note of sadness in. 
> 
> Sophocles long ago  
> Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought  
> Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow  
> Of human misery; we  
> Find also in the sound a thought,  
> Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 
> 
> The Sea of Faith  
> Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore  
> Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.  
> But now I only hear  
> Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,  
> Retreating, to the breath  
> Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear  
> And naked shingles of the world. 
> 
> Ah, love, let us be true  
> To one another! for the world, which seems  
> To lie before us like a land of dreams,  
> So various, so beautiful, so new,  
> Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,  
> Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;  
> And we are here as on a darkling plain  
> Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,  
> Where ignorant armies clash by night.
> 
> \- _Dover Beach_ , Matthew Arnold


End file.
